Twenty Questions by Cardinal Robbins
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: SVU AU There is more in John's murky past than even he is willing to admit. Did he in fact kill Gordon Pratt? What about his previous drug use? These and even more telling questions await!


They were on a stakeout, huddled together in the cold, windows cracked just enough to keep the inside from steaming up with their combined heat and that of the coffee they'd brought along. It was the top of the second hour, when initial small talk is spent like the cartridge from a perp's gun. They sat in comfortable silence in the Ford Explorer, shared the binoculars and sipped French roast from Styrofoam cups.

"John?" Zelman asked, her gaze still on the apartment building. "The game's afoot."

"Don't do it, Sarah," he warned, "whatever it is, you don't want to know." Munch had the binoculars to his eyes as he watched and they waited. "C'mon, Kevin, you know you want to come home," he said, carefully scanning the area around the building for hiding places.

"What don't I want to know?" she asked, perfectly aware he was leery of playing their macabre version of 'Twenty Questions.' She slipped farther down in the seat, even thought their presence was obscured by the SUV's darkly tinted windows.

"You do this to me on every stakeout," he reminded her. "You ask me something so profound, so compelling, so…intriguing, that I cannot resist. I go all weak in the deep recesses of my brain and allow you breach my defenses with your adroit line of questioning." He glanced toward her, then back into the binoculars. "Go ahead. You know you want to – or maybe, you have to. That must be it, you're compelled to know, because you can control almost everything except your curiosity about your handsome, debonair partner."

"Never mind, John. Forget I even almost asked. Nothing I can't bribe out of Fin, anyway, next time he and I do a stakeout." She looked over toward him for a moment and laughed. She secretly loved it when he ranted, even going so far as to push his buttons when she was bored by the long wait to execute a warrant.

"You can't do that to me, Sarah!" Munch asserted. " Now you have to ask the question. It's the law." She took the binoculars from him. It was her turn to watch for a while.

"Maybe I was simply going to ask for more coffee?" She grinned as he gave a derisive snort. "Okay… You sure you're ready for it?" she asked, not taking her gaze off the perp's front door.

"I'm never ready for it, but you'll eventually ask it anyway. It could mean my imminent demise and you'd still ask, because my tortured psyche has found fertile root in your curious soul." John sat and stewed, wondering what on earth she could ask that she hadn't pried out of him already.

"Right. Taking root like a bad weed, resistant to all herbicides," she retorted.

"Zelman, you know you have to ask…" Munch prodded her. He gave her 'the look' as his eyes could be seen peering through the top of his dark lenses. "Spill it. Sooner, rather than later. It's not fair to keep things from your partner." He was running low on coffee and reached across her to get the Thermos.

"Have you ever been addicted to nicotine, John?" she asked, as he was almost in her lap.

"That's it? That's your big question? You're going to try and convince me that was all you thought of this time?" he asked, incredulous. "I don't believe that was it. I think it was simply the entre act to a magnum opus, guaranteed to shred my innermost layers and turn them to detritus." He retrieved the Thermos and poured them both more steaming liquid. "It's too easy, Sarah… Tell me that's not the question you wanted to ask."

She shrugged. "Maybe…maybe not. It's just one of many that I'll pummel you with while we wait to handle this warrant. Now, you may either answer or defer," she added, a tight grin on her face.

"The answer is yes, I have been," he said truthfully. "But I gave it up while I was still in Baltimore," he explained as she nodded. "I've been known to politely accept a cigarette over a beer at the local cop bar, but those occasions are rare."

"Okay," she replied, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.

"Well? How about you, Ms. Perfect?"

"'Ms. Perfect,' huh? If you only knew." She leveled her gaze at him, daring him to call her that again and not take some damage.

"Bet you've never smoked a day in your life." He loved busting her on her bad habits, but it was tough sometimes because she hid them so well. He realized she could still be a smoker, but how would he know? Especially if she only had one or two at the local fern bar when it was 'Girls' Night Out."

"Wrong again, Munch. I went from zero to sixty…well, even though I chain-smoked it wasn't sixty a day," she amended. "Smoked two packs a day for seven years, when I was with my then-husband." She turned to face him for a moment. "Did you think these tiny lines at the corner of my mouth were laugh lines? They're not."

"I never would have guessed. Two packs a day?" he said, genuinely surprised. "You bought into the whole, 'it's not dangerous' babble that Big Tobacco perpetuated? Or was it something else?"

"Smoking kept my weight down," she explained. "I used to live on the edge – my days were coffee or iced tea and cigarettes. And work. Lots of it. Enough work to snap my marriage in half, and turn Plaintiff into a consistently frustrated wife-beater."

He chuckled softly at Zelman calling her ex-husband 'Plaintiff,' her nickname for the man because he filed for divorce, leaving her as the suit's defendant. "You were getting ready for the Bureau even then, too, weren't you? Deep down, you didn't want to be with him, you wanted to be where the action was."

"Yes, I was physically and mentally divorced from him even though we were still married…and playing tennis, power-lifting, doing everything I could to buck genetics and keep the lanky frame I struggled to maintain. The ex had wanted me to stay whisper thin. Everyone else in my biological family succumbed to excess weight and a host of health problems. But I had my eyes on the prize – eventually I'd head for Quantico."

"You should learn to embrace your curves, not regret them," he said wistfully. "How about when you were with Stranahan? Did you smoke then, too? Did he want your curvaceous musculature 'whisper thin,' too?"

"No and no. I'd quit cold-turkey years before then and never picked up another one since," she said, answering him squarely. "He was fine with me, regardless of my level of curviness. Why did you ask about him?" she asked, perplexed. Maybe he'd smelled cigarette smoke on him, as she had when the Marshal was visibly over-stressed.

"Because the last time I had a beer with my good buddy, your ex-boyfriend, he lit up."

"No kidding? He at least offer you one?" she wondered aloud.

"He did, but I politely declined," Munch answered. "Good thing he's a Fed, because we sat outside and the smoke brought over a street uni. Stranahan was almost cited." Munch hadn't been happy, because he knew better and had thought Danny knew New York's non-smoking regs as well. The street uni had recognized John and decided not to ticket a Fed; he hadn't wanted to cite him when they were out talking shop, trying to relax.

"Figures. Wish they had cited him," she said sourly. "It was an issue, because he smoked the same brand as ex-hubby. Every time he lit up, I wanted one, but he said he wouldn't speak to me again if I resumed smoking." Her words had a sting to them, Munch noticed.

"You settled for that double-standard?" John knew Danny could twist her like a paperclip if he was lucky, but most of the time she was as unbending with the Marshal as a steel I-beam.

"No. It was one of those many insurmountable issues… He'd never give up his five smokes a day, and I wouldn't tolerate his attitude about it." John could tell from her tone it had been another issue that forced them in different directions, without compromise.

"Good for you. I was starting to wonder there, for a moment," he admitted.

"About my having smoked – menthols, by the way?"

"Menthols? You had no shame whatsoever, did you?" He took back the binoculars and stared hard at the area surrounding the house, thinking about what course of action to take if things didn't go according to plan. "No, what I meant was about you tolerating a double-standard. I know you wouldn't take that crap from me, so – "

"So, you can rest assured I wouldn't take crap from anyone. Especially Stranahan."

"That's what I wanted to hear," he said, relieved. "Now it's my turn," he added, furrowing his brow. "I won't be bested at this sickening little game of yours, as you shall soon discover while you go down in flames."

She laughed. "Ask whatever you want, John Munch. Do your worst," she dared him.

"Fine, here it is: What illicit drugs or compounds have you consumed in your past, O' 'Queen of Quantico'? He grinned, an evil smirk on his face. "Bet you've never been adventurous enough to drop acid," he added, needling her. The nickname made her bristle, even though it had been Fin Tutuola who'd dubbed her that, while she was an FBI special agent, he was with NYPD's Narcotics division and they worked a few cases together.

"No, I've definitely never dropped acid," she admitted. "LSD scares me too much; I'd probably have a bad trip. Aside from doctor-prescribed compounds, I've only smoked a little grass. Even then, it wasn't until I was over forty," she admitted sheepishly. "I've had enough problems with pharmaceuticals."

He laughed loud enough anyone outside the vehicle would have heard him. "Over forty? Really? After our generation grew up with the mantra, 'Don't trust anyone over thirty'?" He practically snorted his laughter at the thought of her lighting up for the first time at her age. "You're kidding me. Sarah, you haven't done anything except grass? You genuinely _are_ the 'Queen of Quantico'!" He shook his head and returned to his task, leaving her open-mouthed.

"Look, 'Pencil,'" she saw him wince at his old nickname, "drop Fin's 'Queen of Quantico' crap, before you never get any ever again. Are we clear on that?"

"Oh, hit me where I live, why don't you? You will, of course, recall that I wouldn't be the only one to suffer if that's your punishment," he reasoned, a wicked gleam in his dark eyes.

"Smart ass." She shot him an indignant glare. "We can't all have your illustrious background in home chemistry," she said, referencing his LSD use, among other things. "Stranahan did mescaline and grass, almost up until the day he joined the Feds. I smoked grass more than once, and still would on my days off – if I had any."

He grinned wickedly. "You mean, if you had any grass? Or if you had any days off?"

"The latter," she retorted. "Bet my place is 'cleaner' than yours." She winked.

"You can put on a blue uniform and toss mine," he offered, arching his brows. "Bring your cuffs, though, please."

"I would, but you'd enjoy it too much; it's probably one of your favorite fantasies," she quipped. "I also won't make you answer the same question, because I know all about _everything_ you used to do." She looked at him and shook her head, laughing derisively. "To think, now we're both cops. It's a sick, sad world."

"It's certainly all that and more," he agreed. "Your turn. Ask away."

She took the binoculars back and held them to her eyes as she asked, "Back before everything was choked with traffic snarls, did you ever have a motorcycle and have the proper driver's license for it?"

He thought hard, back to the days of 'free love,' the original Woodstock and endless parties. "Didn't have a bike, even though most of my friends did and they'd give me a lift. But I did have a Volkswagen Bug. Does that count?"

"Only if it went faster than my three-cylinder Kawasaki racing bike," she decided. "I can see you in a Bug – your head probably stuck out the sun roof, blowing your long hair in the breeze." She had seen the photos and he made a picture-perfect happy hippy back in the day. "If it was like the other Bugs, you spent as much time pushing it as driving it."

"It probably broke down more than it should have. It served me well enough, while I had it." He sat back and stared at her. "A racing bike? You even had a motorcycle license?"

"I did. Hard to imagine, is it?" she asked. "Entire family grew up with motorcycles – from mini-bikes and trail bikes to touring bikes," she said, brightening. "I miss my Kawasaki, even though mine was only a 500 and the motorcycle unies get K-1000s. My sister still can't believe I didn't put in for motor-cop duty at some point before SVU – it was our private joke."

"You with a gun and a motorcycle?" he laughed. "I wouldn't want to run a red light in your sector," he said, accepting her offer of binoculars. "The city's coffers would practically overflow with the extra cash from all your traffic stops," he teased.

"Too dangerous these days…far too much traffic," she decided. "Your turn to ask. Make it a good one." She reached down and got the Thermos, then poured them both more coffee.

"New York or Los Angeles?" he asked simply.

"Ouch, John, that hurt," she replied. She saw the look on his face and wondered if she could…just once…fib. "Los Angeles." The truth did hurt, like an old, familiar ache from a wound well past.

"You'd choose randomly shaking earth over winter's sleet and snow?" he asked. "You really think spa meals and sun could replace bagels and Broadway?"

"It's a tough choice, but the weather's better out West – and my shooting range expertise qualified me for the LAPD, by now I'd even qualify for Burbank," she added. "But I'm too old to compete with the kids on their force, and I'm not hot to move back – don't think you'd get rid of me so fast." Zelman punctuated her remark with a wide smile.

"You've lived in a lot of places, all over the U.S., over the years. Do you like it here enough to stay?"

"Until retirement, at the very least. After that, we can always decide." She elbowed him gently. "Hey, you're East Coast and I'm adaptable. Quit worrying." Zelman realized he'd asked her because he was testing the waters, to see if she was genuinely happy away from her West Coast roots. "Besides, I like snow during Hanukkah. It's nice when you see the seasons change, too."

He nodded, pleased she had told him the truth. "Now you can ask me the real question. The one you were going to ask, before you veered off for no reason other than to plumb the depths of my addictive, psychoactive personality."

"I'll let it slide," she said, thinking she should choose her battles wisely.

"Ask," Munch compelled her. "You know the rules." He knew them, too. The questions had to be asked and the answers had to be complete. You could defer, but that was points off and left your partner to wonder what the response would have been.

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

The question hit him like a shot without the muzzle flash. "Yes," he admitted. "I have. Have you?" Now she had his full attention.

The question stayed out there between them for a long minute. He could hear her breath, sucked in and held for several moments before she let it out.

"Yeah. I have, too."

She'd never mentioned it to him before. "When? How?" Munch couldn't shake her admission, and he wondered why she'd never told him before now. He knew it couldn't have been while she was with SVU, because he would have known.

"About two years before we met," she said. Her voice suddenly sounded like she was on the witness stand.

"What happened?" He lowered the binoculars as his expression softened ever so slightly.

"Bust went bad during a VICAP case. Another officer was in the line of fire and I had to act fast, with deadly force. I shot the perp's brother, who'd decided to draw down on a U.S. Marshal. The Fed had his guard down for a split-second, didn't see the would-be shooter who was aiming at his head with a thirty-ought-six rifle. The rifle had a scope with night-vision and I caught the glow."

She paused, remembering it all too clearly. "It was so dark. Pitch-black night with the moon obscured by heavy clouds. It was very close-range. I moved in with my Glock drawn…made sure no one heard me, even though my heart was pounding. I squeezed off the shot and it yanked the perp's brother off this rock – hit him square in the right ventricle. I smelled gunpowder and blood," she said. "I was terrified he'd pull back on the trigger when he fell. Saved the Fed, though, which was why Internal Affairs cleared me quickly. He didn't even have a bullet graze – the guy has strong guardian angels."

"Anyone I know?" Munch asked pointedly, his brows at the very top of his dark lenses.

"Don't ask me that again, John, please," she snapped. "Your sadistic streak is showing. It's not one of your most becoming traits."

"C'mon, you and I, we have no secrets," he asserted. "It was your ex-boyfriend, wasn't it? You kept Stranahan from being an officer down, didn't you?" He lowered his head and handed her the binoculars once more.

She felt like she'd just been squeezed through an old-style wringer washer. "Yeah, okay, it was Stranahan," she admitted. "Remember that I didn't lie to you and say 'no.' He saved my life once, so perhaps it was simply karmic retribution."

"So noted," he said flatly. "Less than one second – the margin between life or death. It doesn't get more karmic than that." His tone was pensive, but it reaffirmed what he always thought. She would do whatever she had to on a mission, even if it meant taking a life to save her partner.

"Exactly. He was on that mission with his son, Jack, too. I wasn't about to let him go, not in front of family." She would have taken the shot herself, rather than have an officer go down in front of their own flesh and blood.

"Not in front of you, either." He studied her face carefully for a moment. "Hey, Sarah, it's okay… That was before. We have after," he reminded her. "I'm glad it was Danny and not someone else."

"I'm just a little touchy about it, that's all," she said softly.

"Because it was Stranahan?" he asked, concerned. He took the binoculars back, feeling the need to hide his eyes.

"No. Because I had no remorse," she said, watching his expression remain blank. "I still have no regrets and absolutely zero remorse, which makes me a closet sociopath, I'd wager."

"Could you have shot him to wound, rather than killing him?"

"FBI special agents aren't supposed to shoot anything but kill-shots," she admitted.

"You qualified with kill-shots, but NYPD shoots to wound first," he reminded her, "unless there's no other way." He wished he'd kept quiet when he saw the expression on her face. "I'm sorry – it – "

"It's okay, John," she said, cutting him off. "I know what you mean. No, I couldn't have done it any other way with a reliable outcome. Like I said, it was risky enough with his finger on the trigger." She took another sip of coffee. "I didn't want to watch Danny die in my arms," she whispered, "any more than I want to see you endangered."

"Have you discussed this with Dr. Huang?"

"Invite him to open Pandora's box?" Zelman asked, although the question was merely rhetorical. "No way in Hell. Your turn."

"Fair enough." He knew when to stop pushing and wished Sarah could do the same, but her natural inquisitiveness would always rule the day.

"Well? Or are you thinking, which one?" she prodded gently.

"Technically, there's only been one. Hope it stays that way."

"'Technically'?" she let out a small huff. "Something in your tone belies you, Detective Munch. Your voice tells me there's been more than one."

"How can you say that?" He lowered the binoculars and glared at her. Hard. "Something on your mind, aside from our terrifying little game?"

He was getting defensive and she realized she'd struck a nerve. "Forget it, John. Never mind – it's not worth it." She took the binoculars from him and went silent.

They sat in the foreboding quiet for ten long minutes, an eternity for Munch, who wondered what she knew. He took a long sip of coffee and let out a sigh. "Enough. Speak your mind, before we both go insane from the silence." He watched out the window, as much to observe as to hide his expression from her.

"Bayliss," she began softly. "Your FBI file. An inconclusive case, which is still – technically – open, by the way."

"Since when do you know Tim Bayliss? When did you pull my FBI file?" John struggled to keep the rancor out of his tone, but failed miserably.

"We pulled each other's, long ago… Remember?" She recalled when they'd met, during the World Trade Center disaster. "At least, I said you should pull my jacket. Did you?"

"It was a secured document," he explained. "I couldn't get more than surface facts, not with my lowly security clearance. You should show me _your_ copy sometime." He looked at her curiously. "What did my Bureau file say? I need to know, Sarah. If you've searched back to Balto, you must have found something you didn't want to see."

"Gordon Pratt." She whispered his name as punctuation to a long sigh.

"Jesus. Elliot's right," he said, exasperated. "The FBI is bad luck." Stabler had several run-ins with another FBI operative, with almost disastrous results each time she'd come near him. Munch had also been shot, when the FBI special agent got involved in a case he and Stabler worked.

"Munch! I resent that," Zelman said hotly, wishing she'd never opened her mouth.

He continued to pursue it. "What could possibly be in my file about someone who tried to kill me and three of my colleagues?"

"This has 'long day' written all over it." she said ruefully. "John – "

"Tell me, Sarah," he commanded, "and I mean right now." His voice was so loud she was sure people would hear him shouting. She put a finger to her lips and he calmed slightly. "Okay…" He drew a deep breath and almost held it. "Just… Tell me what the Feds have on me, please? You know how I feel about government agencies."

"The ammo from his fatal wound was from a Glock nine-mill," she blurted. "Bayliss' statement said you offered him your gun for inspection, but he declined to check it for recent firing. He'd lied initially and said he…checked it. He said the results were negative." She sighed, looking through the binoculars once more, an avoidance maneuver. "I wouldn't blame you if you did it. I would have. Without a moment's hesitation and without so much as a trace of remorse."

"You think I murdered him in cold blood, like an organized hit, don't you?" he asked, his voice lowered.

"I think, _if_ you did, you did the right thing," she assured him.

"There's no statute of limitations on murder, so let's drop the issue shall we?" he asked pointedly, his face turned away from her. "I refuse to incriminate myself and the less you know, the less chance you'd have of being summoned for a Grand Jury."

"Sorry I brought it up, John," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

She'd inadvertently struck a nerve; a deep one, from back on the darkest day of his life. Nothing had been as bad as that moment of complete helplessness and lack of control over a situation gone almost fatally awry. He'd carried the guilt for years. His friends, fellow officers, down with life-threatening gunshot wounds and he had slipped in their blood, fumbled for his Glock and wasn't even able to pull off a shot in the ensuing chaos.

"I know the rules. Aren't you going to ask about the other one?"

"You still want to play?" she asked as he nodded. "Alright. Where and how?"

"Cassidy was my partner at the time, before they put me with Fin. Brian always played fast and loose, he wasn't watching a perp as close as he should have been. The guy got him in a half-Nelson while he was being cuffed, and made a grab for his gun. I shot to wound, but my bad luck…the perp bled out before the bus could get there."

"John, I'm sorry… Look, you don't have to – "

"It's okay, Sarah," he added earnestly. "It's only fair. You told me yours, I told you mine."

Before either one could declare 'game over,' Munch heard Zelman gasp. "Ohhhhhh, crud… John, take a quick look at this."

"The wife's home early. This is not good. She's not even supposed to be here!"

"What in the hell is she thinking?"

"Aren't we supposed to turn her over to the D.O.J., for witness protection?"

"That we are, Munch. Jack Stranahan's up from Miami to take her today, they want to stow her pretty deep. She's the star witness in all her husband's rape and mutilation case – five vics in all."

"She knows he was raping and torturing minors and now she's back on the scene. What on earth is going on here?" He put his hand on the door, ready to yank her away from the house. "Let's go. I'll lead. Watch my back, in case he comes home earlier than anticipated."

"Wait! We're going to have to get her out of there with more finesse than force. I think this is going to come in handy, after all." Zelman retrieved an Avon direct sales catalog from the dashboard. "Time for my 'Avon lady' routine."

"I wondered why you brought that along," he replied. "It didn't look like your kind of product line – frilly baubles, fifty types of cologne, more makeup than you've used in your lifetime… I'm glad you don't buy into this, like all my ex-wives did."

"It's a prop," she admitted. "In case I had to work the neighborhood." She leafed through the catalog and tore out the real sales associate's information. "I'm going to lure the wife out, before hubby comes home. I'll get her into the car, in case he's armed."

"You know he's armed. That's a given," Munch reminded her. "What if wifey's armed, too?"

"I'll find out when I bring her to the car," she said simply. "I think she'll be more compliant than you think, because he's got a nasty violent streak."

"His violent tendencies are what worries me," John admitted. "You can't go up there without back-up. By the way, am I the only one wearing a vest?"

"Not much choice, partner. You're not selling," she reasoned. "Both of us on the doorstep would be a tip-off. And yes, my vest is on and well hidden," she assured him. "Let me go now, so I can get her out. If nothing else, we'll 'cuff and stuff' her for safekeeping before he gets home."

"If he comes home while you're up there, back off," Munch warned. "Do we understand each other?" He took the police radio and placed it in his lap.

"Got it," she agreed. "Can't promise anything, except that I'll do my best. See you in a few." Zelman gripped his arm briefly, to reassure him, but could tell by his expression it didn't work. She was out of the car and on her way toward the door, hoping the wife hadn't seen her exit the passenger's side.

Munch unlocked the doors and put the binoculars back up, watching Zelman move quickly across the street and up to the door. She rang the doorbell and waited, the product catalog in hand. His right hand went to his sidearm, instinctively reacting to his partner being out of reach.

Sarah waited with no response, then rang once more. "Hello!" she called, forcing a salesperson's cheerfulness. "Anyone home?"

Kayleigh Cox came to the door and opened it carefully. "Yes?"

"Good morning. I'm selling some products I know you'll want to see, and –"

"No, sorry, I'm not interested. I'm in a hurry and have to go right now." She started to close the door, but Zelman placed her hand on it with enough force to hold it open.

"Kayleigh…you're not supposed to be here," she said, eyes darting from Mrs. Cox to the opened door. She pulled back her opened coat and her gold badge flashed. "Let me get you out of this mess. How could you come back here, knowing what your husband did?"

"I came back for clothes and a few things," she stammered. "I have to have my clothes and some photos."

"Clothes you can buy; you have two minutes to get out here with the photos in a bag. We're going to secret you in the car, until Kevin gets home and we can apprehend him." Sarah glanced at her watch. "Get the photos now. Two minutes – go."

Munch saw Sarah step inside the foyer and his skin started to crawl. "Damn it, Zelman, you're going where I can't see you and you can't see the driveway. Get back out here – right now," he mumbled to himself.

He had been holding his breath and finally blew it out once she emerged with Kayleigh. Just as the two women began to cross the lawn toward the Explorer, Kevin Cox pulled into the driveway, got out of his car and slammed the door. "Kayleigh!"

Munch got on the radio. "Badge 2763 SVU to Team Blue – the perp's on-site, move in!" He kept the radio as he exited the SUV and started for the drive, to come around on the opposite side of Cox.

Sarah drew her carry and aimed at Kevin's head as his wife screamed. "Kayleigh, run to the Explorer and get in – go," Zelman said, as she saw Munch exit the vehicle, gun drawn.

"What the hell is going on here?" Mr. Cox shouted, coming toward her menacingly. "Who are you and what are you doing with my wife?" he asked, confused, "Kayleigh, come back here!"

Kayleigh Cox stood, unmoving, a frightened rabbit unsure of which way to run. "Don't answer him – go, do it now!" Zelman pushed her in the direction of the Ford. "Run!" She did as she was told, her hand tight on the bag of family photographs. "Kevin Cox, we have a warrant for your arrest – "

Kevin pulled back his jacket and reached behind him, pulling out a .22 caliber.

"Let me see both of your hands, NOW!" Munch yelled, his Glock leveled at Cox. "Hands on top of your head!" He heard a pop and saw Zelman move back a step. _No. Oh, no._

"Kevin, you son of a bitch," he heard her say. She didn't dare look down.

"Shots fired at police," he called into the radio, coming around from the side, gun still trained on the perp. He could feel his pulse rate jump with the kick of adrenaline in his system. She'd been shot. He knew it.

He pulled his cuffs as she jammed her nine-mill against the Cox's jaw. "Drop your weapon before I drop you," she growled, bruising him, satisfied only when she heard his gun hit the concrete.

Munch spun him around and slammed him hard against his Land Rover, wrenching his arms down and back with almost enough force to dislocate his shoulders. It took seconds for him to cuff Cox and shove him hard to the ground. Two sector cars skidded to a halt in front of the house, one blocking the driveway, the other at an angle to the first. "Team Blue is here," he said curtly, then recited Kevin his Miranda rights.

A uni came up to take him into custody, having heard him being Mirandized. "Pat him down for extra weapons, don't forget to bag his twenty-two, then get him to the sixteenth for booking," Munch ordered. "We'll take his wife in ourselves." He watched as the officers complied, finding a Saturday Night Special in Kevin's ankle holster. "More firearms he hasn't registered, you can bet."

"No kidding," Zelman said, watching them lead Cox to the unit. "Wife's clean – no carry." She looked down. "Crap."

"Sarah – " Munch yanked up her sweater and stared at her vest – there was a .22 round lodged firmly in the Kevlar. "Are you okay?" He tried to pull the vest upward, but couldn't. She'd fastened it so tightly it was like a second skin.

"Maybe a bruise later on, from the impact," she complained. "But just a hole in my sweater because the vest held. At least he didn't pull his .38," she said wryly. "That could have hurt – he was at point-blank range."

"That's what I was afraid of," Munch admitted. "You sure you're okay?"

"Fine, John, don't worry. Might have a post-rush adrenaline crash, from almost being popped," she said, with cynical understatement. "When we get back to the house, we'll bag my vest as evidence. Casey will be glad we have him on additional charges, so she can put him away for the rest of his natural life."

"One can only hope," John replied, placing his hand on the small of her back, leading her toward the Explorer. "He tried to pop a cop," he said, shaking his head. "Let's take Kayleigh to Stranahan. We'll meet him at the house."

"Agreed," she said. "Just don't tell Stabler about all this, okay? He'll start thinking I'm bad luck."

"Far from it, Sarah," Munch assured her. "He'll know you have strong guardian angels."

"Oh, I do," she replied. "One of them is you – and you always have my back."

"And always will," he said, sliding into the driver's side. "You can count on it."


End file.
